Under the Moon
by Irisang
Summary: Sherlock AU. kid!lock. Eight-year-old Sherlock wakes up and finds an old man sitting by his window, fiddling some red cord and clay dolls. Inspired by an old Chinese 'Yue Lao' mythology , a god of love and marriage appears as an old man under the moon. It'll be a three-parter.
1. The Red Cord

**Under the Moon**

 **Part I The Red Cord**

'Who the hell are you?' Eight-year-old Sherlock sits up from his single bed, a flashlight in his hand, pointing at a mysterious old man with long white beard, who is sitting by his window.

'Your windowsill is very comfortable.' The old man says. His voice is gentle, but distant. Unnaturally distant. Sherlock thinks.

Jumping out of his bed, the young boy hops toward the old man. He's so bald! He says to himself. His eyes can't stop looking at his loose ocean blue robe. Why are his sleeves to broad? Why are the color of his cloth looks so fluid?

'What are you doing?' He asks

'It's a full moon tonight.' The man with long white beard purrs. 'I can see my dolls and their names on the book very clearly.' He smiles through his beard, fiddling a bunch of red cord and several clay figures.

Beside, it lays a book.

A blank book.

'It's not a book.' Sherlock points out. 'It's blank. It's not for reading. It's for you to write or draw something in it.'

'For you maybe.' Old man chuckles. He lifts up his hands, binding a side of the red cord to a clay doll.

A girl doll. Sherlock recognizes.

'Um.' The lips behind the white beard make a hesitated noise. Long fingers from blue sleeves go through the pages of the blank book. 'That's see…where's your match my good girl? Ah, there he is!' He gazes back at his clay figures, fingers tap at each little doll heads. And then he picks one up.

A boy doll. Sherlock notes.

The old man makes a sigh, straitens up his back. He carefully finds the other side of the red cord, tying it securely to the clay boy.

'There you go. My beautiful couple! How nice! So wonderful!' He puts down the two red-thread bonded dolls to the windowsill, watching them admiringly. 'What do you think?' He turns and asks Sherlock.

The boy stares back.

'What is that?'

'A couple.'

'How so?' They are just dolls. Sherlock thinks.

'I just matched them.' The old man smiles. 'I find their names in the book of marriage. I made figures represent each of them. And then I tie the red cord. That makes them a couple. They'll find each other, get married, live old and cherish each other for a life time.' He gives Sherlock a big grin. 'Beautiful, isn't it?'

The boy narrows his eyes. He doesn't like the old man. Not that he's scared of him. ('I should. He breaks into my room!') But the way he talks, so certain, so…as-a-matter-of-factly.

'Mycroft says caring is not an advantage.' He says, glaring at the swaying white beard. 'And clay dolls aren't real people. A book with all the matching list can't be blank.'

'The book is only blank for the mortal.' Old man mutters as his attention goes back to the empty pages. 'Hum…' He points at the papers as if he's reading. But it can't be.

It just can't.

'You don't decide who marry who.' Sherlock blurts out. 'You can't do that!'

'Of course I can't.' The old man responds with a delighted tone, hands keep moving to and fro among the dolls. 'The book lays the names out. I just read it, make the dolls, and bind them.'

'But dolls aren't real people!' Sherlock can't help raising his voice. His teeth grits, fist clenches.

'Certainly not. They're representatives. I've told you that. Ahh!' Letting out a cheerful exclaim, the old man's big grin reflexes from the window glass. He stretches his hands dramatically, taking up one doll. _A boy doll_. Sherlock notes. And then the long fingers reach for the cord.

'Stop it!' Sherlock snaps, pushig the old man's back. The old man makes a mumble, turning back to face him.

'You just can't see others be happily together, can you?' His eyes pierces into Sherlock's. The boy feels his breath suddenly taken away.

'It's not real!' His face flushes.

'What's not?'

'The cord, the dolls, the book….the whole thing!'

'How do you know?'

'Because…people don't get married from red cords!' His chest is heaving. 'No one, no one ever have red cord tying to them.'

'Oh really.' A smile comes behind the shining long beard, distant titters echo in the bedroom. 'Do you want prove?' He says as his strong fingers snatch Sherlock's left hand, pulling it to the window.

Beneath the silver moonlight, there is a thread of red cord, one side tying safely to his litter finger, the other side left hanging, extending into oblivion.

'Hum!' Sherlock gasps sharply, drawing his hand back.

'Would this convince you?' The distant yet close voice reaches his ears. Sherlock raises his head, stepping forward.

Reaching his left hand under the moonlight, he wonders at the reappearance of the shinning red cord.

* * *

This will be a three-parter. The next chapter will be updated soon!

If you like/hate this story, please R&R to let me know.

My user name on Tumblr is irisang. Come to say hi if you'd like;)


	2. The Girl

**Under the Moon**

 **Part II The Girl**

'It's against the rules bringing you here.' Under the midsummer sun, an old man in blue robe is walking hand in hand with a young boy in pirate pajamas. They stop at the entrance of a playground. The old man turns to the boy, his voice quite, tinkling. 'And you must give your words. Don't talk to anyone, or touch anything over there. Do you understand?'

'Yes.' The boy, Sherlock, nods hastily. He gaze cannot help but fly towards the playground. He's still a bit daze being taken from his dark bedroom to a shinny park in an instant. But it doesn't matter. He wants to know. To see the girl who is bonded by the other side of the magical cord. The girl who is his…his what? Bothered? Girlfriend? Future wife? Doesn't matter. He just has to know.

'Over the slide, behind the hedge, upon a bench.' Old man gestures to the open space. 'You must remember…' His voice fades quickly as Sherlock ignores him. Darting past the entrance gate, he runs as fast as he can to the hedged end of the park.

Beside the thick green hedge, a small silhouette in yellow sun dress sits curling up on a bench, little arms wrap around her knees.

'Hello.' Sherlock says, carefully climbs up on the bench next to her.

'Shush!' The girl hisses hastily, eyes fixed at something in front of the her. Sherlock frowns. She doesn't have much manner as he has expected.

'What are you doing?' He asks a little louder. Why doesn't she turn her face? It's quite rude.

'Oh, no!' The girl exclaims, her voice with disappointment. 'Please don't go!' She hops down from the bench, tiptoeing across the narrow path, squatting slowly down before the trimmed bushes. 'Come back.' She pleads, pressing her hands and cheek against the ground.

Sherlock jumps down from his seat. 'What are you looking a…' But his question is cut short by a resentful look from her teary eyes.

Brown. He thinks.

'It's all your fault.' The girl bits out. Her little fists clench tightly. 'You scare them away. I try so hard to get them used to me. Now they're gone.' She sobs, burying her face in her palms.

'What are you talking about?' Sherlock asks, a little startled by her distress.

'The kittens…' She hisses, speaking from her palmed face. 'And their mum. They make a nest under there.' She puts down her hands and glares at him. 'Now they have to find a new home.' Her chokes become louder. 'My mum says soon enough the mummy cat will let me touch her babies!'

'I'…' Sherlock gapes. I should say sorry. He thinks. But for some reasons his voice doesn't come out.

It was an accident.

Suddenly, after a few more chokes, the girl takes out a pink kerchief from her pocket, drying her face and walking away from the hedge.

'Where are you going?' Sherlock blurts out, follows closely behind her.

'Home.' She answers briefly, small steps soon turning into a trot, bringing her away from the path with benches. Bypassing the bushes, she runs to the metal slide.

'Wait.' Sherlock reaches out, trying to stop her. But she is brisker than she looks. He wants to grab her arm but falls one step short. His fingers are caught up in the yellow fabric of her dress.

A sharp scream pierces apart the playground. Stumbling from the sudden tug of her cloth, the girl's head knocks against the edge of the slide. Blood spurts from her auburn hair. She falls, face down, hitting the ground without making a sound.

Sherlock stares, stunned by the gush of metallic fluid. He quickly remembers to kneel down and help. But his hands miss her, only moisten by the sticky red. Darkening void envelopes him. He struggles as his consciousness fading away. 'Let me help her.' He shouts, voicelessly, until his vision reduces into nothingness.

* * *

Thought? Advice?

Come and visit me on Tumblr. My USL is irisang


	3. Under the Moon

This is the last part of story. Fluff, fluff, and fluff! I hope you enjoy it as I do. Please feel free to leave a comment wether you like it or not.

* * *

 **Part III Under the Moon**

He runs in the darkness, shouting and howling but cannot make a sound. He is drifting in the void, upon the nothingness, until nihility fails him. And then he falls.

'AH!' The sharp hiss rips apart the warm stillness of the room. Sherlock Holmes rouses from the cozy bed before the window. Sitting up, he pants ferociously, eyes scanning across the room. Uneasy wetness sticks at his palms. Raising his hands in front of his eyes, he expects the red horror, the sticky metallic liquid, only to find a glittering golden ring.

A wedding ring.

 _My wedding ring._ His mind says before he begins to think.

'Sherlock?' A soft voice next to him calls. Another person rises from the bed. Delicate small hands rest upon his shoulder.

Tearing his eyes from his sweaty hands, Sherlock turns to the petite silhouette. His gaze is greeted by the glistening sparkle from his wife's yellow nightgown.

'Molly.' He purrs, swallows back the lump in his throat.

'Another bad dream?' She calmly coos, lips laying on his bare shoulder, leaving a gentle kiss.

'Hum.' The man moans, taking a deep breath, pulling his wife into his arms.

Lying back to their pillows, the couple cuddle quietly, eyes fixed at each other for a good while, until Molly speaks.

'What was your dream about?' She asks, looking into him, expecting him to pour out his terror, regrets, doubt, and uncertainty. But her husband simply blinks.

'I…' Sherlock drinks in the sight of the generous, saintly woman who remains loving him even after all the anguish he'd put her through. He opens his mouth, wishing to tell her the unreasonable fright he'd experienced in the nightmare. But his mind simply goes blank.

So instead he stares, gapes at her, holding her slim figure tightly.

'It's ok now.' Molly voice muffles. She snuggles against his chest, burying her face in his skin.

'Um.' Resting his chin into her hair, Sherlock mumbles as the heavenly scent of her rosy shampoo envelopes him. He glances across the moonlit, deep blue bedroom with a relaxing sigh. The simple content is all he asks for.

'I love you.' He blurts out, shutting his eye, kissing her auburn hair beneath his chin, one hand strokes through the glossy, slightly damp locks.

Then he feels something. A smooth spot at the top of Molly's head, invisibly hidden under the long, thick hair.

 _A laceration scar_. He gasps as he mind recognizes it. Jumping slight from the mattress, Sherlock can't help but running his fingers through his wife's head.

'Sherlock?' Molly mutters against his skin, worried.

'What is this?' Sherlock asks anxiously, hands pushing her hair aside, desperately trying to take a closer look of the mark on her scalp. Moonlight rays upon their bed, subtly lights up his vision as the deep blue color of the night filling the space with tranquility. That is when he remembers, about the moon, the old man, the magical red cord and the sunny day in the park.

'Uh, my mum said I was pulled and hit the metal edge of a slide…'

'…by a boy on the playground.' Sherlock blurts out before Molly can finish answering.

'Well, I guess it's not very unusual, isn't it? Children messing about.' She looks up, smiling, unable to make out Sherlock's astonishment.

'I'm sorry.' Blundering out his remorse, the husband cups his wife's face between his hands, guilt building up within his chest.

'For what?' Molly blinks, her smile slowing turning into concern.

'It must have hurt.' He says.

'It guess so. Mum said she had to take me to the ER and had it stitch up….Sherlock?' Molly fails to talk any longer, for she is pulling into her husband's embrace once again. Touched by his annoyance over the age old trifle, she nestles into his arms, enjoying his cherishing with a beam of joy.

Lifting his face from Molly's nape, Sherlock glimpse at the bedroom window. Midnight breeze shakes the lattice. Beyond the window glasses, the world turns into ocean blue under the moon.


End file.
